


You Have Shining Eyes

by unwindmyself



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Comfort Sex, Developing Relationship, F/F, Female Friendship, Femslash, Femslash February, Fix-It, Hurt/Comfort, Trauma Recovery, girls protecting girls
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-08-08
Updated: 2015-02-18
Packaged: 2017-12-22 19:18:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/917045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwindmyself/pseuds/unwindmyself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Wherein Doreah is not a girl in a vault, she and Daenerys relearn how to trust each other, and it becomes clear that this isn't just some passing infatuation.</p><p>Rewrite from the end of 2.10 on.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I know that you've been hurt too, oh we're black and blue

There’s naught but moonlight through the window when Dany stirs; it’s not unusual for her to wake in the night, especially lately, and for a moment she’s not yet placed in the present.  Her heart jumps, she scans the room for her dragons to confirm that she hadn’t just dreamed their return to her, and she’s about to climb from the bed to go to them anyway – overprotectiveness and the like, not to mention the comfort that she takes from just being able to feel them under her fingertips – when she registers Doreah’s shaking form beside her.

She still does not know where they stand with each other, she does not know what privileges she is still allowed even though they have been quietly sharing a bed and have not long left each other’s company, but warily, she lays a hand on the other girl’s shoulder, whispers, “Doreah?”  Doreah for her part doesn’t yet rouse: she mumbles incoherently, tosses side to side like one having a fit.  It’s only when Daenerys notices the tears streaming from Doreah’s closed eyes that she shakes her more forcefully.  “ _Doreah_!”

The brunette jolts awake with a shriek, sitting straight up and clutching the covers to her chest; only belatedly does she turn her head and see Daenerys staring questioningly at her.  Daenerys reaches to touch Doreah’s arm, attempting some comfort no matter how foreign it feels in light of everything, and Doreah practically jumps out of her skin, batting that hand away _hard_ and whimpering, “No, no, no.”

Those words sting worse than the slap and Dany hurriedly withdraws, dropping her hands to her lap.  “I’m sorry,” she whispers, unsure exactly why she is apologizing but knowing she must.  “You seemed to be having – I thought you might want something to help you sleep, milk of the poppy or…”

“No,” Doreah repeats, shaking her head fervently.  “No, I don’t want that, don’t want to go numb.”  She curls into herself, arms around her knees; she can’t meet her queen’s eyes, can’t open herself to her.

“S-sweetling,” Dany stammers, all hesitation.  This is already more than Doreah has said since she was returned; the words, the strange disconnection in her tone, they just add to Dany’s worry.  “Is there anything I can do to help you?”

This is also the first acknowledgement – from either of them – that help may be needed.  (It should have been obvious, but perhaps neither knew or knows quite how to broach it.)

Instead of speaking, Doreah bursts out sobbing, hiding her face in the covers and wailing desperately.  Daenerys feels her heart break, and in spite of herself she scoots a bit closer.  She wants to ask Doreah to respond, she wants to demand an answer, but she knows that would be unwise.

Finally, her voice gone so quiet it can barely be heard, Doreah says, “Forgive me, Khaleesi.”

“Forgive what?” Daenerys asks, equal parts test and genuine inquiry.

“I should have – I could have –” Doreah draws in a ragged breath, lifting her tear-stained face and staring over at Dany.  “Irri is dead because of me, you suffered because of me, I was weak.  I’m always _so_ weak, I don’t know how to stop things.”

What Daenerys now realizes she’s been fearing all this time is sinking in, becoming more certain and starting a feeling of dread in the pit of her stomach.  Of course, she’d be stupid not to have known it, though it disgusts her to think of – she disgusts herself for having ignored it this long.  “You aren’t weak,” she murmurs after a moment.

“I can’t fight, Khaleesi,” Doreah insists, laughing bitterly.  “I don’t fight.  I’m very easily used.”

“Sweetling,” Daenerys says again, more confidently this time.  “One day, you will tell me everything.  I’m sure you did things that you regret, and I suspect you had things done to you that were not your fault.”  She sees Doreah stiffen – yes, what she had thought is true, she can see that now – and has to swallow a shuddery sigh of her own. 

Against her better judgment, she moves her hand to the other girl’s shoulder again, only for Doreah to recoil fiercely.  “No, _no_ , don’t touch me,” she screams, tears rolling down her cheeks and onto the bedcovers.  “You should have left me there, it’s where I belonged.”

“Did you design the plans to harm me?” Daenerys asks coolly.  “Did you take part in their murders?”  She’s not sure why this is the reaction, of the twenty she must be having, that she chooses to vocalize, but it happens nonetheless.

“I didn’t stop them,” Doreah says.  “I am not innocent, Khaleesi.  I acted with – I _did_ things, I –”

“And who, then, _is_ innocent?” Dany asks.  It comes out sharper than she intends, and she lowers her gaze, somehow embarrassed.  “Everyone is culpable in something.”

“You’re so calm,” Doreah whispers – calm being relative, they both know, cutting words are still calm compared to the wrath that the khaleesi is capable of.  “Hot coals, but no fire.”

Once her handmaid, or her lover, or her nothing at all, she can’t know, has sat up, Dany has to admit, “I thought about it, leaving you.  I saw you in his bed and I went blind with rage.”  It’s said softly enough, but because it’s her, she has to say it.  “Even now, I am unsure: how much of you is the woman I trust and how much is the woman who betrayed me?”

“How do you tell where one ends and the other begins?” Doreah asks, loosening her grip on the bedcovers.

“The traitor did things that I cannot fully understand and still do not know the extent of,” Daenerys says.  “I am still angry with her, I admit.  The other has confessed to me, she regrets, she –” A sigh, and she lowers her voice yet more.  “I was sick with worry over her, and I cannot forgive myself for any wrongs that befell her.”

More tears well in Doreah’s eyes.  “I lost sight of myself,” she confesses.  “I thought to keep you safe at first, and they – it was poison to the mind.  I thought so many horrible things, I let myself be swayed, be used like always.  It became so blurry, Dany.”

The first time since that she has not hidden behind titles.

“It’s done now,” Dany murmurs.  “I cannot pretend it’s going to be like it never happened, we both know better than that, but if you will atone, so will I.”

Doreah makes to wipe her tears away, but Dany catches her hand and stills it, tentatively brushes her own thumb over the other girl’s cheeks.  This time, she is not refused, and no protests fall from Doreah’s lips: she flinches, which Dany is realizing may well be the way of things for a while, and her eyes drop again, but she lets herself accept the touch.  “Your Grace,” she says, suddenly finding the silence unbearable.

“My lady,” Daenerys returns quietly.  She’d already forgotten the feel of these private words on her tongue, and Doreah had forgotten how beautiful they sound.

“How can you still say that?” she asks, cursing that she can’t seem to stop crying.  “I am no lady.  Truly, I am nothing.”

“You are the moon of my life,” Daenerys whispers, resting her chin against Doreah’s shoulder.  “Some day soon, you will tell me all that happened in that place.  Everything, no matter how painful.”

Doreah whimpers, making a face.  “I’m not sure I can find the words,” she says.

“It will be when you’re ready, but you will need to say it at least once,” Dany insists.  “And I need to hear it.  I will be angry, I cannot pretend that I won’t.  I will be angry with you, but I will also be angry with those who did this.  I will be angrier with them.  I know already that I will not regret their fates.”

“You are right to know that,” Doreah says somberly, her body tensing at the thought of them.

“What is most important for you to know, though,” Dany continues with a hesitant tenderness, “Is that the thing I _would_ regret would be losing you, and I will not let that happen if I can prevent it.”

“You flatter me,” Doreah mumbles.

“I treasure you,” Daenerys corrects.  “The hurt will fade with time, but that will remain.”


	2. men would live and die for you, but all I want is you

They hold hands on all of their outings and they silently dare anyone to speak of it.  Doreah ignores the stares, Daenerys glares at the whispers.  By now at least Kovarro has figured out what is going on, or as much of it as can be figured out: it’s only logical, he’s the one to stand guard outside the khaleesi’s quarters most nights.  He has pieced it together, and they assume he is – if not understanding, then at least accepting, so he’s taken to running interference with the others.

_Daenerys keeps Doreah close because it’s easier to trust her that way._

_The khaleesi may keep anyone close that she chooses and it’s nobody else’s business._

_Khaleesi Daenerys cares for her own and that takes many forms, including keeping them close when they are in need._

The girls are thankful and go along with the provided excuses, and most of the khalasar seems unfazed, or as unfazed as they're going to be.  Only Jorah seems to truly ignore what now is almost painfully obvious.

They hold hands and it could mean any of the things Kovarro says, maybe it means all of them.  Dany sometimes catches herself looking askance at the brunette, trying to read her features and cursing that she can’t.  She wants her explanation, but she cannot push, she knows this.

It may be a while.  Doreah only speaks when spoken to, if then.  She is polite enough when she needs to be, but she’s half a ghost, a part of her stayed behind somewhere and the rest of her suffers for it.  Everyone can see that much, at least, and they give her a wide berth.  It’s superstitious, really.

The day before they set out to sea, Daenerys asks Kovarro to please escort them one last time to the market.  Doreah braids her queen’s hair and has hers braided by her queen in return, and they step out just like a pair of normal women.

“I want you to pick out some things for yourself,” Daenerys says as they begin to look around the stalls.

“I don’t need anything,” Doreah replies immediately, deflecting.  “I have all I need already.”

“Please?” Dany asks, inwardly cursing the desperation in her tone.  “Let me do something for you.  We will need to blend in to different societies, after all.”

“We?” Doreah echoes faintly.

“Where I am, I want you to be,” Daenerys says, becoming equally timid as she adds,  “If you want to be.”

They walk in silence past vendors upon vendors, both thinking, or trying to think, of what comes next.  It’s in front of a cloth-seller that Doreah finally murmurs, “I don’t know what I want.”

Dany focuses on a bolt of green silk to keep from showing the concern on her face.  “Oh?”

“I – rather I know _what_ I want, just not how,” Doreah continues.  “I want to be something that I’m not, but I don’t know how to begin.”

“You have your freedom,” Dany says, trying to disguise the way she chokes on the implication behind the words.

“You gave it to me,” Doreah corrects.  “I do not have it anymore.”  She lowers her voice, draws arms around herself.  “Only someone who trusts themselves is truly free.”

After exchanging nods with Kovarro, Daenerys reaches for Doreah’s hand and tugs her gently to a private spot.  “Are you ready to speak of it?” she asks softly.

Doreah’s eyes go dark and she nods just slightly.  “I am easily manipulated,” she begins, echoing her refrain of late.  “I meant to keep your dragons safe, to keep _you_ safe – it’s what Irri wanted too, and then one of the men – he wrapped a cord round her neck and just _held_.  I resolved to cooperate right there, seeing the life drain out of her.”

Daenerys stares down at her hands, willing herself not to cry.  “I had never dreamed such a thing would happen,” she whispers.

“None of us had,” Doreah agrees.  “I had thought, we had all thought, that once we were in the city, we might be safe, that you would keep us safe, and then _this_ came from nowhere and you couldn’t, could you?”

Daenerys bites her lips together, says nothing.

“They fed me these lies,” Doreah explains, softening her tone.  “And they sounded so sweet.  Sweeter certainly than Irri’s fate, though she was much braver than I.  I am still afraid of death.”  The tears have welled in her eyes but do not fall, and her voice does not waver.  “They needed me, too.  I was the one who could handle the dragons.  So I did.”

“They did not force you to –”

“I cannot tell you all of it yet,” Doreah says, so simply there's no mistaking her meaning.

Daenerys nods again.  “Forgive my asking,” she half-whispers, swallowing the bile in her throat.

“They tried to tell me everything was your fault,” Doreah continues.  “That were it not for you, none of this would have happened.”

“It would not have,” Daenerys interrupts, her own voice shaky.  “In this they were right, I –”

“You are not to blame,” Doreah says firmly.  “I chose to follow you, to try to protect you.  And I let myself be swayed.”  She meets her queen’s eyes, startling herself with her directness. “They wanted me to blame you, and for a while I did.  If I am to be free, I must be allowed to own my actions.”

This chastens Dany some, and she scuffs her toe against the ground for want of something more helpful to do.  “Am I not allowed to want to protect you in return, though?” she asks.

“You are,” Doreah agrees.  “But I must protect myself, too.  I must be able to.”  A silence falls over them; Doreah takes Dany’s hand and idly strokes her thumb, a gesture designed to be of equal comfort to both of them.  “I scare easily, but I am the only one who can change that.”

“May I at least help?” Daenerys presses.  “I admit that I feel responsible for you, even if I know I shouldn’t.  It is difficult for me to stop feeling that way toward those I love.”

Doreah’s not sure why her jaw drops at that.  She has seen looks on the other girl’s face that could be thus attributed, and gods know many of her actions could only be explained by it.  She has said things that mean the same, but the proper word falls differently somehow.  Doreah feels a matching declaration on her tongue, she knows despite everything they’ve been through or maybe because of it that it is genuine, but she cannot force any sound out. 

Daenerys does not hold her breath for the word to be returned, and she does not feel anything but understanding at the pause.  She knows their situation, whatever it is, is far more complicated than a simple exchange of words, and she expects very little accordingly.

Finally, Doreah moves just enough to gather Dany in her arms, still silently; in the way that she’s only ever done with the person before her, Dany tucks her head into the crook of Doreah’s neck, slides arms around her waist tenderly.

“Are we going to be expected back soon?” Doreah whispers.

“We can take our time.”


	3. I would part the waters if you said so

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: discussions of abuse.

It is not hers to set the pace of their reconciliation, and Daenerys knows this: she cannot ask for more answers, she cannot demand more touches (especially not that).  She does not want to undo what little they have managed, so though it is harder for her than she would wish to admit, she must let it out of her hands.

When they set out to sea really and truly, Doreah does not blanch or turn sick like many of the others, but neither does she join Dany in her above-deck walks.  She has none of her queen’s wanderlust or daring, she thinks, and she is better-suited to spending her days out of sight, especially now.

The first night at sea, Doreah is already asleep when Dany crawls into bed, or she is pretending to be; somehow it is easier than trying to come up with conversation.  She does not know yet how she feels; she does not know yet how to answer any of the polite and careful inquiries.  She knows, too, that Dany will not push her.

 

* * *

 

The second night, after having spent two days running in almost total aloneness, Doreah has a bit better of an idea of what she needs.  She waits for Daenerys, and once the other girl is in bed, she turns on her side to spoon her without preamble.

“You’re so warm,” she whispers.

It’s not in surprise since she’s always known it (she thought at first that it was flush from the sun or – or something else and she’d brushed it out of her mind, but she’s touched plenty of people in such conditions, and not even Viserys, for all his bravado and big talk, felt like this; there’s a part of her, she thinks, that maybe knew Daenerys was the _true_ dragon all along) but it’s almost a reaffirmation.  She’s always known that her khaleesi runs warm, but she’d forgotten how that warmth felt beside her.

Doreah herself runs just as warm as most people do, possibly even cooler sometimes.  Dany opens her mouth, thinking to self-deprecate or perhaps to say something flirtatious, but no sound comes out.  She is somehow overwhelmed by the feel of Doreah against her back, of Doreah’s arm over her waist, of Doreah’s breath against her skin; it feels to her like it’s been years since they last laid like this instead of weeks. 

Finally she murmurs, “Reah, I –”

“Shush,” Doreah says, scooting closer and holding Daenerys tighter, pressing lips to her shoulder blade.  All she needs right now is _this_ , a way to anchor herself, something real and safe and simple.

 

* * *

 

The next night, Doreah is all but naked when Dany enters, and Dany isn’t sure what this means, but she follows suit, dropping her clothes on a chair as quick as can be and snuggling close so their bodies brush together under the covers. 

Doreah’s arm goes around Dany’s waist once more, and on an impulse she travels her hand to Dany’s breast. 

“Reah,” Daenerys breathes, suddenly both panicked and hopeful.  “Reah, please –”

“Please what, Your Grace?” Doreah asks, and there’s just enough edge to her voice that Daenerys can’t tell if she’s being coquettish or annoyed.  (For all that Doreah can read _her_ , she’s still rarely able to read Doreah.)

“Please,” Daenerys repeats, choking on her words.  “Only if – if you want to, if _you_ want –”

Doreah shakes her head, and the look in her eyes would be enough to shut anyone up.  “Khaleesi,” she says firmly.  “Dany.  I am not made of porcelain, I am not going to break.”

“I just don’t want to hurt y–”

She doesn’t have a chance to finish her thought, as Doreah flips her on her back and kisses her roughly, swallowing her gasp.  Their hands are soon clasped, Dany’s arms pinned beside her head just as that first time; Doreah rests atop Dany, blessed little candlelight or air between them, and they’re close enough together to be comforted by each other’s heartbeats.

Doreah shifts to brush her fingers across Dany’s jaw, tender and almost-but-not-quite desperate.  These are the touches not afforded a bed-slave, and so these are the touches she craves to give and receive.

Soon, Daenerys rolls their bodies, so they are face-to-face on their sides.  She swings a leg over Doreah’s, brings her hand to her chest, thumbs her nipple, and Doreah gives a shuddery sigh against Dany’s lips, whispering “Daenerys” like it’s a prayer.

“My lady,” Daenerys whispers back, cupping the other girl’s breast.  Her fingertips brush a line of raised flesh, then another, lines she doesn’t remember having felt before, and instantly they’re both frowning.

“I don’t want to talk about it,” Doreah mutters, even as Dany discovers the feel of this new scar, the ruined flesh criss-crossing over the skin from Doreah’s side to her nipple.

Daenerys opens her mouth to protest, but Doreah looks so serious that she just can’t.  With a faint nod, she permits Doreah to move to straddle her hips once more, kiss her once more.

They kiss and kiss, and Doreah again pins Dany’s arms, with wandering hands out of the way there is no room for unpleasantness.  Dany shifts anxiously under Doreah when she feels herself growing wet, she does not want to push, and Doreah nods faintly in understanding.  One thing at a time, she thinks.

 

* * *

 

On the fifth day, Doreah wakes before her queen, dresses in real clothes for the first time since they set sail, tiptoes onto the deck.  Kovarro nods a hello, and one of the younger girls of the khalasar, skinny and frizzy-haired and with eyes like pitch, whispers “good morning” to her in Dothraki as she passes, but mostly she is left alone.  She sits at the stern and stares all day at the rippling blue-black water.

Daenerys sees this when she emerges, but she does not join her maybe-handmaid in her reveries.  She can tell somehow that it would be the wrong thing to do.  She discourages others from wandering back, too; Jorah frowns, watching her watch Doreah at this distance, and he touches her arm as he whispers, “Is she all right, Khaleesi?”

Daenerys just presses her lips together, turns her eyes to the sea.  Her voice is strained, as it often is with Jorah of late.  “She may be,” she says.  “She must decide for herself.”

Doreah stays on the deck until nightfall, watching the sun set, letting the breeze cool her skin.  It is only when the chill becomes difficult to bear that she makes to return to the cabin that she and Daenerys share.

Daenerys is reading – something, some old book – by candlelight, wrapped in one of her silk robes.  She is so concentrated, frowning over the text, and Doreah is struck with a sudden tender feeling.  (She herself can only read as well as the undereducated nine-year-old she was when she was sold to the pleasure house – which is to say barely at all – but watching the other girl do so is somehow impossibly endearing.) 

Doreah undresses and slides under the covers, not wanting to disturb, but she finds herself growing almost comfortingly impatient after a few minutes, and with something approximating playfulness, she asks, “Are you going to be at that all night?”   

Dany shakes her head, shutting the book softly.  She takes a deep breath as she stands, and she’s watching the other girl’s face very carefully as she removes her robe. 

“Tonight I am yours,” she whispers.

The candlelight makes her skin glow, makes her seem the bride and daughter of fire that she is; for a moment, all Doreah sees is her face, wide eyes – looking almost dark green now – and parted lips.  Soon, though, her eyes catch on the thin silver links, delicate necklaces only everywhere, around Dany’s torso: looped around her shoulders, falling over and under her breasts, dropped down between her legs. 

This, even more than the little games of tying up and teasing they played in their simpler life, even more than any words they have shared, is an act of such submission and devotion that it startles her.  Queens, especially not ones so independent, so fond of liberation, do not present themselves in chains, even just wrapped in them, these ones that are quite clearly only decoration, that have no real binding properties at all, to their whores.

Perhaps she is finally thinking that she might not be just the queen’s whore, though.

“Your Grace,” Doreah breathes, her usual coy tone all but vanished as she regards her queen-khaleesi-lover with more adoration and awe than she thought herself capable of.

Dany smiles, climbing onto the bed with demurely lowered eyes.  She settles between Doreah’s parted thighs and tentatively Doreah reaches out to finger the metal glinting against her shoulder.  “I do not – I do not deserve this,” she murmurs.

“Shush,” Dany says softly, pressing the fingers of her right hand to the other girl’s lips.  “The fact is that I am joined to you, Doreah, and such things are rarely logical.”

Logic would have been leaving her behind.  Logic would have been never allowing this connection to develop in the first place.  Yes, Doreah knows that there is little logic to this – but she cannot very well argue.  Logic and luck rarely coincide.

So she takes a breath, she guides Dany’s fingers into her mouth.  She meets Dany’s eyes – widest blue just now – as she wets those fingers, sucks on them suggestively; Dany does not move a muscle, just waits for instruction.

“Will you fuck me, Dany?” Doreah asks, and it’s not rough as would suit the words or saccharine as would be found in some man’s misguided fantasy, it’s just straightforward, dichotomously tender.  She guides Dany’s hand between her legs: her expression is almost pleading but never desperate.  She never says and Daenerys never asks, but it is clear what she needs: a reminder that her body is capable of receiving pleasure, that not all touch is pain, that some touch has meaning beyond.  It is not unlike the lesson she taught the khaleesi all that time ago.

Dany nods just slightly as her fingers ghost over Doreah’s clit, light and sweet and good, and she leans forward to press her lips to Doreah’s shoulder blade, her throat.  She wants to feel Doreah’s skin go as warm as her own.

Doreah relaxes under Dany’s touches.  “Khaleesi,” she murmurs, “Khaleesi, please.”

Daenerys strokes over Doreah’s sex, then slips two fingers inside her.  “Tell me what you want, sweetling,” she says, her breath hot against Doreah’s skin.

“Start slow,” Doreah murmurs, her eyes closing.  Daenerys moves her fingers betwixt the other girl’s legs a while, kisses along her shoulder and clavicle, but when she reaches Doreah’s breast, Doreah recoils.

“You don’t want me to do that,” Dany surmises.

“Why would _you_ want to?” Doreah retorts, though it is mostly sad.  She folds her arms self-consciously over her chest, frowns.  “It’s ugly, Khaleesi.  It’s not fit for you.”

It’s so plaintive, so lost, that Daenerys wants to cry; instead, she withdraws her hand from Doreah’s womanhood and tentatively caresses the scarred tissue, shakes her head.  “I think it’s beautiful,” she declares, making assumptions.  “Not because of what was done to you, there is no beauty in that, but because it tells me that you have survived.  It tells me that you are resilient and strong.”

Doreah opens her mouth to disagree, but no sound comes out: it’s only when she looks in Dany’s eyes again – gray-violet now – that she sees the truth of it.  She tangles her hand in Dany’s hair, gently urges Dany’s mouth toward her nipple.

Glad that her efforts seem to have succeeded, Daenerys kisses the flesh of Doreah’s breast, tracing her tongue in circles, sucking and caressing and sighing lovingly; she presses her fingers against Doreah and into her, feels her tighten and hears her moan.

“With your mouth, too,” Doreah murmurs after a while, pushing Dany’s head down further still.

“As you like,” Dany beams, repositioning herself so as to be able to lick at Doreah’s sex.  It gets a low, choked wail falling from Doreah’s lips, causes her to grip Dany’s hair a bit firmer. 

For her part, Dany just smiles more, anticipating that Doreah will cry out, “ _More_ , Khaleesi, faster.”

More and faster can be done, will be done: Daenerys spreads her fingers out on Doreah’s thighs, presses so she’s close as she can possibly be, moans and lets the low rumble add to her ministrations. 

This keeps up, Daenerys responding to every low sigh and prompting touch from Doreah, until Doreah about shouts, “Please, Dany, _now_ ,” gripping her shoulders so tight that fingernail marks are left on Dany’s skin.  So urged, Dany licks up the length of Doreah’s slit, focuses attentions on her bud until Doreah positively wails, her body going tense and then relaxed as she lets go.

Daenerys does not move once she’s finished, she stays on her stomach between Doreah’s thighs and idly traces circles on her skin, she allows the moment to take over.

Doreah allows the same, suddenly blurting out, “I love you too.”

Daenerys does not rush to reply, but she lets herself be pulled back up, she wipes her mouth, she smiles softly.  She does not make for Doreah’s lips, but she lets herself be pulled in for a quiet, tender kiss.

 

* * *

 

On the sixth day, when the women are lying in bed with all the candles blown out, fingers tracing lazily over each other’s skin, Doreah takes Dany’s hand and guides it really and truly to the scar on her breast.  “Fire cannot kill a dragon,” she murmurs, “But a dragon’s whore can still burn.”

Dany purses her lips, but says nothing.  This must be Doreah’s to tell, not hers to presume.

“I was but a pretender,” Doreah continues, and it’s clear she’s mimicking what was told her.  “Of course I’d want them for my own, I’d play along with their plans, but who’s to say I wouldn’t be expecting rescue the whole time?  Who’s to say I wasn’t planning my own escape from _them_?  Once a liar, always a liar, at least till tested, and how better to test the unburnt queen’s woman, really?”  Her voice drops, her tone becomes detached.  “How better to ensure that I’d stay right there as I swore?  Nobody wants a ruined whore but the one who ruined her.”

“I should have burned him, too,” Daenerys mutters.  “He did not deserve a quiet death.”

Doreah shakes her head, laughing so as not to cry.  “He deserved every death that could have been given him.  I could have done it, could have strangled him with that damned necklace he wore, could have opened his throat like a letter, but I – I am a whore, not an assassin.”

“You are my goddess, the moon of my life,” Daenerys whispers, moving so their foreheads touch.  “I do not stand for it if others call you ‘whore,’ and I will not stand for you saying it of yourself.  It is a piece of your past, but it is not _you_.  And neither is this,” she adds, running fingers over the scar.  “I would kill them twenty times over for doing this to you, but you are still standing, you are mine and I am yours.”

“Oh, my love,” Doreah breathes.  “My beautiful, vengeful, merciful love.”


	4. we foresee the mercy that's been shown my young limbs

They’re a day from Astapor, and for most of the Dothraki it will not be a moment too soon.  Many are still greensick, nervewracked and clutching at each other; Daenerys keeps court on deck, watching her dragons fly, making herself available to any who need her.

Doreah steps out around midday, wearing one of Dany’s old Westerosi-style dresses, her hair loose.  (She is rebuilding herself from the ground up, it can be seen.)  Jorah and the khaleesi are discussing – something – and Doreah knows better than to interrupt: even from a distance, she can read their expressions, Jorah’s strange balance of paternal chiding and a would-be lover’s ego, Daenerys’ tight-lipped annoyance.  She is too civil to yell at him, but Doreah has seen her face before she _does_ start yelling, and it looks much like this.

When Jorah stalks off, Daenerys moves to the bow, folds her legs underneath herself and just _sits_ , eyes tracking Drogon around the sky.  Doreah waits, chewing her lip, until she is certain that nobody else will be approaching, then she takes her skirts in hand (voluminous as they are, she finds them rather cumbersome, but a small voice in her head suggests that it’s good practice) and goes to her queen.

“You look unhappy,” she murmurs, easing down beside her.

“Pensive,” Daenerys corrects immediately, tipping her head back to see Viserion and Rhaegal fly at each other.

“Was this pensiveness started by Ser Jorah?” Doreah guesses, her tone consciously light.

The girls rarely discuss the once-knight, but by now both are more than aware of what he wants.  Dany still seems to think it will all be okay, that they can maintain the balance that has been kept, Doreah is more skeptical. 

“Ser Jorah – thinks highly of me,” Dany says diplomatically.  “But he sometimes expresses his doubts.”

Doreah makes a face.  “What did he say to you, Khaleesi?” she asks, careful to keep the edge out of her voice.

“He merely reminded me that the Dothraki follow strength,” Daenerys replies, and there is suddenly enough edge in hers for the both of them.

Doreah does not reply yet; she regards the other woman with worry, but she is silent.

“He’s right, of course,” Daenerys continues.  “He has lived amongst them longer than I, he knows their ways better.  I am not strong in the Dothraki way.”

“You have followers,” Doreah insists.

Dany rolls her eyes in the way she does when she’s trying not to cry or show how upset she is.  “Where else would they have gone?” she asks shakily, as if it’s a fear she’s only now voicing.  “Outcasts and former slaves and –”

“And people whose loyalty you won,” Doreah interrupts.  “Kovarro and – and Rakharo and Irri –”

“Yes, and that ended wonderfully for them,” Dany retorts sullenly.

“And me,” Doreah says softly.  She suspects the bitterness in her queen’s tone is largely self-directed and not caused by anything that has been said to console; she suspects that her honesty is at least part of what is needed.  “I know that I do not count, I am as foreign as you in their world, but _I_ followed you because of your strength.”

“Nice words and force of will are not warrior strength, though,” Daenerys murmurs, though it is more resigned than angry by now.

“They are still _strength_ ,” Doreah maintains.  “Anyway, you are as much a warrior as anyone, Khaleesi.  How many of those men that Ser Jorah speaks of have survived a night in the flames?  How many have – have –” Here she chokes on the words, but she keeps up.  “Have burned age-old warlocks alive?”

Daenerys bites her lip.  “None,” she admits.

“You are strong,” Doreah repeats. “Warrior strong and otherwise.”

“Tell Ser Jorah that,” Dany mutters half-heartedly, hating how much like a child it makes her sound but unable to stop herself saying it.

Doreah nearly laughs.  There are many things she would love to tell Ser Jorah, but even if she is no longer a slave and maybe not even a handmaid, it is not hers to educate errant knights in how best to speak to their queen (or how to speak to any woman, perhaps).

Instead, she takes Daenerys’ hand carefully.  “I will tell _you_ ,” she says.  “I will tell you as many times as you need me to, I will tell you until the words become nonsense and you tell me to shut up.”

Dany’s eyes fall, and sad though it is, her lips twist up in a smile. “You would spoil me,” she murmurs.

_It is practically my job –_

_You spoil_ me –

_It is what is right –_

“I would be the voice of reassurance that you cannot ask anyone else to be,” Doreah finally says once she has sorted out the realest answer.  She sees her queen’s strength, but she is also privy to her queen’s weaknesses: both are beautiful, both are vital to her.

“Sweetling,” Dany whispers tenderly.  “My lady, my love.”  She lifts her hand to brush down Doreah’s jawline, to push dark hair behind her ear, and somehow Doreah is surprised when suddenly they’re kissing.  They have kissed so many times it is beyond counting by now, their lips have known every part of the other’s body, and she’s almost positive their secret is not quite a secret anymore, but this is still the first they’ve kissed where others might see.  It is oddly freeing, Doreah realizes.

“Is this all right?” Dany asks, pulling back but only barely.

“Of course it is,” Doreah says, trying not to giggle with that strange delight.  She goes in for another kiss, more heated than the first; she does not move to touch the khaleesi in any additional way, but she scoots just a bit closer, inviting as much touching as is appropriate.

Nothing disturbs them, nobody interrupts, until, giving a shrill cry, Rhaegal lands at their feet.  They are none of them shy, the dragons, and Rhaegal especially likes to pretend he’s aloof and does not need affection at times, but when any of them ask for attention, it is wise to comply.

Doreah is hesitant to touch him, wary still in the light of recent events, and Daenerys sees this apprehension (has to swallow some herself, she must admit, instinct stays wary longer than head and heart) and reaches for her lover’s hand, guides it to stroke Rhaegal’s scales.

All at once, Doreah relaxes, smiling and murmuring an affectionate “hello” at the dragon; Rhaegal, for his part, nuzzles into her hand, practically cooing.  Any faltering in the bond between dragons and not-quite-just-handmaid seems not to have lasted, Dany’s approval is their approval too. 

Soon Drogon and Viserion have landed too, swarming the women with little regard for their lungs or limbs: yet crowded as they are, jostled and nudged about, they both burst out laughing, their smiles meeting their eyes.  They fall against the deck in a most unladylike fashion and let the dragons cover them in some kind of love.


	5. now in this wicked world risk I, bold endeavors by and by

Doreah is waiting for them when they return from seeing the slavers, ready to tend to whatever a proper head of house tends to.  (Her attempts at mimicking Irri are still clumsy, but it does her good to have things to do.  She does not want to keep idling in bed like an invalid or like – what she is not allowed to call herself anymore.)  The two former knights have worry on their faces, creasing their brows and setting their mouths in lines; the khaleesi looks almost angry, though it is her quieter kind of angry.

What’s more interesting, though, is the unfamiliar girl trailing behind them.  She’s likely of an age with the khaleesi, maybe a bit younger, maybe a bit older (a life spent among people who lie about their age has made Doreah awful at guessing others’); she’s curly-haired and willowy, not quite apprehensive but not quite confident either.

Doreah crosses to them, an eyebrow quirked.  The closer she gets, the surer she is that the girl comes from something horrible – she has the weary-but-unhesitating look that belies such things.  As such, Doreah is careful with her tone when she says, “Hello.”  Once she realizes the girl isn’t going to do any more than nod deferentially without further prompting, she tries for a polite smile (the kind she’s out of practice with) and adds, “I’m Doreah.  What are you called?”

The girl stands up a bit straighter, pulls her shoulders back.  “This one’s name is Missandei,” she says, her voice clear and even.

Doreah bites her lip, holds up one hand in a silent _pardon me_ , then motions Daenerys aside to whisper-confer with her.  “Have you been freeing slaves today, my love?” she asks, not without fondness and a fair amount of pride alongside the attempts to better understand.

“It’s complicated,” Daenerys murmurs, frowning like there is more she needs to say but she can’t, not yet.  She switches to Dothraki to add, “Trust me, moon of my life.”

“Yes, Khaleesi,” Doreah replies, demurely biting back a smile.  She has never grown fully used to the sounds of the Dothraki language, she does not speak it particularly well or know as much of it as Daenerys does, but she knows enough to understand the request.

Turning back to Missandei, then, Doreah says, “You must be famished,” her tone kind but very carefully not patronizing (that, she knows, is important).

The young woman’s dark eyes dart to Daenerys, who nods encouragingly.  “I think we could all use some supper,” the khaleesi declares.  Her knights have already vanished, and any of the others are otherwise occupied as well, but she rightly assumes that Doreah has not yet eaten, so the “all” is really “us girls.”

(It is a silly comparison – Missandei is after all near their age, and Doreah knows that because she is the queen’s lover does not mean that she is an equal player in this game – but she cannot help but feel like they’ve suddenly adopted a child.)

Missandei does not make conversation while they eat; she murmurs gratitude for the meal and polite compliments to the cook, but only when she seems to feel prompted to.  There is none of the easy chatter that fell from Irri’s lips, none of Doreah’s proclivity toward storytelling.  Hers, Doreah intuits, was a life reliant on reticence.

It must be Daenerys who suggests they retire to her quarters, Doreah who agrees to it: this is normal, they are showing.  They do not yet join hands before the girl (that, too, must be at Daenerys’ discretion) but they are plenty affectionate with each other and warm enough toward her as well.

“Will this one be needed to ready you for bed?” Missandei asks, sounding as unsure as she has yet.

Daenerys shakes her head, letting her gaze travel to Doreah and back.  “I merely wish to speak with you,” she assures.

It must look shockingly relaxed, this lady of eminence inviting girls with their pasts (how much of Doreah’s past does Missandei even intuit?  Most behaviors that would imply it have faded, but neither is she a noblewoman) to join her on cushions on her floor, but that is how it is.

Missandei sits stiffly, uncomfortably, and Daenerys just smiles.  “What do you think, my lady,” she half-asks.  “Ought we to help Missandei relax?”

“This one will do what she is told,” Missandei mutters, visibly tensing even further.

“It’s not like that here,” Doreah says softly, laying her hand over Missandei’s.  She can guess at what was just assumed, after all.  She understands that flash of anxiety in the girl’s eyes.

Daenerys moves behind Missandei, gingerly begins combing fingers through her hair.  “Is this all right?” she asks carefully.

“It – Your Grace flatters,” Missandei breathes, startled by the casual, warm attentions. 

“But is it all right?” Daenerys presses.

“Of course,” Missandei murmurs.  For minutes, the girls are in silence, Dany twisting and braiding with practiced hands, Doreah just smiling, Missandei looking wholly unsure of the situation.  Some are particular about their slaves’ appearances, she knows, perhaps it is just that.

(Of course it is not, Doreah knows well that her khaleesi is calmed by the easy pattern of hair-playing and that this is not the first time she has used it as an act of comforting, both to herself and the other party.  She is surer now that something weighs on Dany’s mind, but she trusts her to reveal it in time.  She trusts her, full stop.)

“Doreah my love, could you fetch one of my robes?” Dany asks suddenly once the braid is finished and secured, serving as a band of sorts to hold back the rest of the girl’s hair.  Doreah nods, rising gracefully and going to her queen’s trunks, and Dany moves to her cushion again, touches her own throat in example.  “Missandei,” she says, “Remove your collar.”

“Your Grace…?”  She lifts her gaze, seeming unsure of the command or indeed of its giver’s intentions.

“Remove it,” Daenerys echoes.  “From this day, you are a free woman.  I must ask your services tomorrow, of course –” She nods almost sheepishly, which Doreah knows is not all it seems, and Missandei nods in return, too startled to speak – “But if you wish to leave me when tomorrow is done, it is your right.”

Missandei’s jaw drops, and she cannot help but to voice the years of anxieties that have been conditioned in her.  “This one does not deserve –”

“No,” Dany interrupts.  “Do not talk like that, do not think so poorly of yourself.  Of course you deserve your freedom.”  She meets Missandei’s eyes.  “Will you remove your collar, Missandei?  Will you remove your collar and follow me as a free woman?”

Missandei worries her lip, then without a word reaches to unclasp the collar.  Doreah offers the robe, sinking to her knees to help Missandei swap it for her slave’s dress.

“This one –” Missandei stops herself, sets her jaw.  “I am happy to follow you, Your Grace.”

Dany and Doreah smile, first as Missandei and then at each other.  “I am honored,” Dany says.

They sit in silence a minute, adjusting to the arrangement it seems, and Doreah stands again, this time unbidden, to fetch one of the bottles of wine in her khaleesi’s small reserve.  She notices Missandei watching her, as if she’s trying to puzzle things out, and she can predict what will follow when the girl murmurs, “Begging your pardon, Your Grace?”

Daenerys casts a smile, the startled kind that shows she was likely just letting her thoughts drift until brought back to reality, and accepts the wine from Doreah as she says, “What is it?”

“You will forgive if the question is impertinent,” she begins, sounding shocked that she is even saying it, “But this – but I am ignorant, the men who were with you at the master’s serve as advisors and guards, you are a queen, how –” She frowns, furrowing her brow apologetically.  “What is my lady Doreah’s part in this?”

Doreah bursts out laughing.  “I am no true lady, sweetling,” she says.

Missandei hurries to correct herself, flustered.  “No offense was meant, my – how ought you to be addressed, if not as such?”

“My name will suit,” Doreah smirks.

“Address her however she likes,” Daenerys cuts in.  “She is _my_ lady, my lover and companion, but she is not yet officially titled.”  At ‘yet,’ Doreah raises an eyebrow in some sort of surprise; Missandei is unfazed, nodding in seeming understanding.

They chat awhile longer, letting the conversation fall to the upcoming day’s events and then to more lighthearted matters; when Missandei begins to yawn, Doreah makes up the bed that some still pretend is hers and suggests the other girl take it.  Once Missandei has fallen asleep, softly not-quite-snoring, Dany and Doreah disrobe and climb into the larger bed; Dany rolls on her side, preoccupied, and Doreah takes a chance by nuzzling up against her, throwing an arm over her waist. 

“Your lover and companion,” she whispers, almost playful.  “It sounds so elegant.”

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Daenerys asks, her voice faint.

“Of course,” Doreah says, kissing Dany’s shoulder blade and sighing.  She knows what that voice means, that it is only a matter of time before Dany changes the subject to what is truly worrying her.

It takes only moments.  “I am not going to go through with it,” she murmurs.  “The arrangement.”

“Dany?”

“Giving a dragon over,” Dany clarifies.  “The master thinks – gods, even Jorah and Ser Barristan think – but I am not _stupid_.”

“Of course you aren’t,” Doreah soothes, careful of the tone of her voice.

The blonde scoots yet closer, covers Doreah’s hand with her own.  “I need the Astapori to believe me,” she explains.  “And Ser Barristan does not know – he has not been with me for so long.  But Jorah –” Her voice breaks, she sounds so fragile when she adds, “I would never use my _children_ as things to barter.  He should know this.”

It’s enough to bring tears to Doreah’s eyes (she has shed more tears for Daenerys Targaryen then she has let herself shed on her own behalf, she thinks) and naturally, she understands.  It is a mother’s wounded pride, but it is also a queen’s bitter disillusionment (seeing her advisors’ lack of faith), a woman’s ugly recognition (seeing, not for the first time, that even those who say they trust do not, for any number of reasons).  Whatever friendship she had hoped to maintain with Jorah seems less and less possible, too.

“He should,” Doreah agrees finally.  She does not speak against the knight, at least outright, but she’s fairly sure her frustration toward him is no secret.

Carefully, Daenerys turns over to face her lover; there are tears in her eyes, too, but there is no mistaking it, they are of pure anger.  “You were right, I think,” she says.  “I am plenty enough of a warrior, they will not be able to deny it at this time tomorrow.”


	6. tripping through the misty streams of light, so beautiful, I stare in awe

Doreah is waiting with the others while the khaleesi deals with the slavers.  The wayward knights go with her, Missandei goes with her, but – no.  There is no need for Doreah there.  (Of the essential attendants, she’s only a bit jealous.)

Instead she and Kovarro keep watch: someone needs especially to stay with Rhaegal and Viserion, she tells herself, and no others have proved themselves equal to the task.  Kovarro stays with _her_ , at least symbolically, she is still dangerous in the eyes of some (Ser Jorah, always Ser Jorah) and it is necessary (so she intuits).  She sits on her hands to keep herself from fidgeting with her old loose pants and her new-made silk top and the bracelet jangling on her wrist, she glances from the dragons to the sky and then back again.  When they burst out shrieking, almost in unison, she springs up to comfort them, singing nonsense songs that they seem to like; she cannot know, but it is at this moment that Drogon has set his would-be master aflame.

When they are readying to leave, Kovarro appears behind her and lays a hand on her shoulder.  Without preamble, he hands her the reins to a horse, a beautiful soft-gold mare, and it takes her breath away.  Not because of the horse’s beauty, but because nobody gives a horse, an easy escape, to a girl under guard, to a thief and a liar.  It is the last little piece of forgiveness, the forgiveness from everyone and not just from Daenerys.

“She is yours,” Kovarro says, the words coming out rough and heavily accented.  He places hands on her waist, lifts her to the saddle, and offers her an oddly soft smile.  (He is perhaps an older brother to her, she thinks.  There is none of the ungainly seduction she has experienced so many times over, none of the hands attempting to wander, there is just – friendship?)

She is not so accustomed to riding as some of the others, of course, but she finds the rhythm quickly.  They ride out behind Daenerys, her Queensguard and her new scribe, they ride out surrounded by her newly-won soldiers.  Nobody speaks the whole ride to their new camp, and Doreah spends the entire time imagining what transpired and staring with increasing lust at her queen’s back, her silver-blonde hair catching the light of the setting sun.  (Of those who got to witness Daenerys’ triumph, she is only a bit jealous.)

The fires are already lit and the tents pitched by the time Daenerys’ retinue dismounts.  Her knights and bloodriders tether the horses (Kovarro tends to Doreah’s), she stands looking almost bewildered in the firelight for only a split second before Doreah runs to her and (caution be damned) kisses her with almost crushing need.

She knows there are dozens of pairs of eyes on them – she can feel the heat of them as much as that of the fires – but all she is truly _aware_ of is the weight of her queen in her arms.  Dany squeals happily against Doreah’s lips, rises on her toes and gets tipped back simultaneously, and it’s almost perfect.

“Khaleesi,” Doreah breathes once she’s lifted the other woman back up.

“Doreah,” Dany pants, looking plainly stunned.  It takes her a minute to collect herself, a minute that Doreah spends straightening her own clothes and hair with a demure expression.  Once she _has_ collected herself, all she whispers is, “I love you,” smiling up from under her eyelashes.

Doreah echoes it, soft and reverent, before she turns her own smile wry and adds, “I should let you tend to your new army.  You have much to do, I imagine.”

Dany nods resignedly, but soon she’s cupping Doreah’s cheek and whispering, “Is it too much to ask you to wait up for me?”

“Of course not,” Doreah says.  “I was going to insist on it, I want to hear every last detail.”

They exchange another kiss before they part, this one lingering and gentle and not at all knee-weakening like the first, then like a couple of blushing children they dart off in their opposite directions, Daenerys going to see to her people, Doreah going to see to her queen’s dragons for want of something better to do (it keeps her away from prying eyes, and though she doesn’t imagine anyone will say a thing, she doesn’t exactly fancy being glared at by Ser Jorah for an hour). 

Finally Dany steps in, somehow remarkably unruffled.  Doreah is sprawled out amongst the furs, hair fanned out behind her, pillows arranged strategically; suddenly, she sees herself as she might look through the khaleesi’s eyes and worries she is too much, too obvious.

(She isn’t, of course; Dany has to work to keep from letting her jaw drop.  Even knowing every little secret of Doreah’s body, she is still awed by the sight of it: the curve of her hip alone, peeking out from the furs so alluringly, is enough to inspire ballads.)

“I waited,” Doreah murmurs, shifting and in the process baring her breast casually.

“I see that,” Dany says, blinking rapidly.  At a loss for further words, she crosses to sit beside the other woman and pull off her boots.  Doreah props herself up on one arm, kisses Dany’s throat, giggles.

“My conquering heroine,” she coos.

Daenerys blushes prettily, turning after a moment to capture Doreah’s lips with her own.  “I suppose I am, aren’t I?” she laughs, seeming almost shocked by her own cheery arrogance.

Without further hesitation, Doreah’s hands find the fastenings of Dany’s dress and begin tugging at them.  “I’m proud of you,” she declares.  “You did something truly great today.”

“I could not have done it without you,” Dany whispers, shrugging to allow her clothes to be pulled off.

Doreah laughs disbelievingly.  “Flatterer,” she chides, like she always does.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” Dany asks.  She meets her lover’s eyes with all the sincerity in the world.  “You taught me how to take control of – of anything, really.”

Doreah arches an eyebrow.  “I did,” she muses.  It’s true, though she’d never thought of it so before.

“You did,” Dany echoes.  “You know I’d wanted to give up?  I couldn’t see out of it, it all seemed so horrible and bleak.”  Her voice falters.  She has confessed this to no one.  “You gave me the hope I needed.”

“As you gave it to me,” Doreah murmurs, stunned.  “As you have given it to countless others, as you will give it to countless more.  You have done great things, Daenerys Stormborn.”  She brushes strands of blonde hair away from the other girl’s throat, hovering there as if to kiss the sensitive skin.

Daenerys reaches up, lays a hand over Doreah’s.  “I do not do them alone,” she murmurs insistently.

They sit in silence a moment, listening to each other’s breathing and feeling the rise and fall of each other’s chests, and finally Doreah says, in routine, “I am yours and you are mine.”

“I am yours and you are mine,” Daenerys echoes.  She tips her head, silently begging Doreah for that implied further attention; Doreah presses her lips to her lover’s pale throat with every reverence.

No words are spoken for a time, but they move as one, kissing in twelve different ways and tracing hands over each other’s skin.  Dany takes extra care with Doreah’s new scars, Doreah leans to draw her tongue over Dany’s nipple like she knows will get a reaction, and suddenly they’re fumbling for which of them will take control, their hands bumping together as they wrestle to share their love.

Carefully, Dany distracts her lover with momentary attentions to her clit, then eases her legs further apart; she moves to kneel over one of Doreah’s thighs, brushing flesh against flesh, tangles a hand in Doreah’s hair and kisses her enough to make her moan.

“You’re all right?” Daenerys whispers.

Doreah nods.  “So long as you start now,” she says, her voice strained.  She trails her fingertips over Dany’s inner thigh and higher still to encourage this, smiles weakly.

“Of course, my love,” the blonde murmurs, shifting her own hips carefully as she moves fingers against Doreah’s sex, all tender concentration.

It’s not long before Doreah starts to keen, the sounds seeming to come from a place altogether outside of her.  She strokes at her queen, but idly, more and more of a caressing tease than a proper effort as the sensations overtake her; the hand Daenerys is not moving between Doreah’s folds wraps around her waist to keep her from tipping all the way back.

“Seven he-e-ells, Khaleesi,” Doreah cries.  “Yes, _there_.”

Tempted though she is to move to press their hips together, slick heat against slick heat, or at least to drive her own against Doreah’s thigh more firmly, Daenerys instead follows commands, focusing her fingers right _there_ until she feels the brunette come apart, body relaxing and mouth falling open in her ecstasies.

As the aftershocks subside, Dany eases Doreah back, smiling sweetly. The throbbing between her own legs is almost too much to bear now, but she is still not good at asking for reciprocation, even when it was so recently offered. 

Daenerys has finished Doreah several times since – everything, they’ve kissed until they’re short of breath and fallen asleep with their naked bodies tangled together.  But for all number of reasons, she hasn’t pushed to be finished in return.  All in time, but being brought to the brink like this is stirring a distinct and lately-neglected need.

She’s slipping a hand down to finish herself off, worrying her lip, when Doreah, who has fully recovered it seems, rolls onto her stomach and gazes up at her mischievously.  “I wouldn’t dream of letting you do that,” she whispers.  “Allow me.”

Doreah sits up, wraps her legs around her queen’s hips once more, slides fingers against her sex to wet them before slipping them inside.  “Please,” Daenerys pants. “Please, love, please.”

Doreah doesn’t say anything in return, just smiles with some mixture of coyness and affection; she moves forward to kiss Dany, moaning as their tongues meet.  It’s her turn to place a steadying hand at the blonde’s waist, hold her through every tremor.

She can tell when Dany is close – she knows the way her body shakes, the way her expression changes – and given all that led up to this, it is unsurprising that moment should happen quickly.  She concentrates her efforts thus, her thumb rubbing circles around the other woman’s clit even as her fingers move inside her, and she breathes out, “Come, my queen.”

With that, Daenerys’ head falls back, she lets out a string of what Doreah assumes is High Valyrian (though whether endearments or swear words is unclear, as she herself has perhaps four words of the language) and then outright _wails_ , tightening around Doreah’s fingers and giving one last thrust of her hips.

It often takes longer for Daenerys to regain herself after orgasm, so Doreah takes it on herself to untangle their limbs and arrange her against the furs, then pull one over their bodies and cuddle up beside her, arm about her waist.

Finally, Dany turns her head to press a kiss to Doreah’s cheek, sweetly and innocently.  “That was – especially splendid, my goddess,” she whispers.  Both of them know exactly why, nothing more needs to be said on that.

“I could tell you thought so,” Doreah grins.  “I think anyone outside the tent might have heard too.”

“Let them,” Dany retorts, softening it with a giggle and another kiss.  “I am allowed my happiness as they are allowed theirs, and you make me quite happy, my lady.”


	7. what can be said for the gift that has flown into my hand?

Doreah does not sit in on her queen’s strategy meetings, most times. She isn’t needed, and she doesn’t imagine she’s much wanted, having nothing to contribute but perhaps her skill at pouring wine (of course, Dany refutes this if it’s mentioned, but Doreah still doesn’t know how to believe it’s not just flattery, most compliments still feel that way to her and it will take years, probably, to condition herself otherwise). Instead, she waits.

Mostly she sits with the dragons, her chin in her hands as she stares and wonders for the hundredth time how the child who dreamt of these beasts from stories now keeps watch over three of them, sees them fly and feels the heat under their scales. Sometimes she busies herself in the tents, straightening up and bustling about. Sometimes she goes for walks, though she does not know what more to say to the others in camp than “hello.”

Save what they told Missandei, there has never been any announcement, any declaration that she does in fact belong to Daenerys, willingly belong, happily belong, belong as much as Daenerys belongs to her, but she knows that everyone in camp knows at least enough to treat her as such. She does not know what they see exactly, and she suspects they see her as little more than the queen’s choice courtesan, but it still affords her their respect; she knows the Unsullied would not lust after her regardless, but it’s somehow refreshing to be surrounded by legions of men, none of whom turn a lecherous eye her way.

Tonight, though, she waits. By some miracle, all three dragons are asleep at once – Viserion’s wing over his eyes to shield him from the outside world, Rhaegal curled up tight as he could be – and so she doesn’t have even their antics to distract her. Her thoughts drift, she lights a candle, she pours herself some too-warm water to drink and strips out of most of her clothes, aiming to feel a little bit of coolness from the gentle breeze coming through the tent.

She must fall asleep, because the next thing she’s aware of is Daenerys nudging her gently.

“Are you done for the night?” Doreah asks, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

“For the night,” Dany agrees. “There’s nothing more we’ll get done now.”

She holds a hand out to Doreah, and Doreah accepts, letting herself be pulled up and led to their trunks. They undress each other, Doreah working at the hooks and laces of Daenerys’ blue dress and carefully laying it aside before letting Daenerys divest her of what remains of her own clothing; they both pause to trace fingertips and lips over each other’s skin more than once, like they can’t help but do sometimes.

Once they’re naked, they fall against their pillows, and though she’s still drowsier than she would admit, Doreah asks. “Did you have a productive evening?” She does like knowing and anyway, it seems polite.

“Enough so,” Dany murmurs, in that way that usually means _less than I’d have hoped_.

Doreah nods, leans to kiss Dany’s forehead. She knows better than to ask further – it would all just fly over her head anyway, most like, she doesn’t understand strategy or the like. Instead, she traces fingertips over the contours of Dany’s face, across her cheekbones and temples and over her lips and up the bridge of her nose as if she’s memorizing the details. She stops, though, when she reaches the scar between her queen’s eyebrows: she’s noticed it before, of course, the slight little line in her skin, but she’s never thought to mention it. But, maybe for the first time, Daenerys is noticing Doreah noticing it.

“I was seven,” she murmurs, locking eyes with Doreah and nodding as if to say she’s not made upset by talking about it. “We – Viserys and I – were at the top of the stairs, talking about something that I don’t even remember. He seemed upset, and the next thing I knew, I was sprawled on the floor below, dizzy and bleeding and with my dress torn.”

Doreah can hear the words between the words, and if Viserys wasn’t already dead, she’d be tempted to kill him herself. Not just for this, but for the invisible wounds he left on his sister, the ones she’s had to work to heal from. (To say nothing of those he left on everyone else, including herself.)

“He chastised me, of course,” Daenerys continues. “How could I ever be so clumsy? Lucky for me I hadn't hurt myself more seriously, that it wasn’t a scar to ruin my face or damage my chances.” She laughs bitterly. “That’s how he said it. Even then he must have seen me as a possible bartering chip.”

“I’m sorry, love,” Doreah whispers, leaning to press another kiss to the spot in question. “Nobody should ever have to feel like that.” It’s said with the tone of one who’s done more times than she can count.

“No,” Daenerys agrees. Before she can stop herself, she traces her fingertips over Doreah’s lips, lingering on the scar down the left side that she memorized just as long ago.

“That’s from when I was young, too,” Doreah murmurs. “All of the children playing in the street, my face getting in the way of a stick being used as a sword. My mother was furious, but she’d already planned out my future, and a little thing like this is nothing to men who pay.” She shivers involuntarily and Dany wraps arms around her. “It’s not ugly, not like some.”

Dany frowns. She knows exactly what that other is that’s being discussed.

“This scar was just from carelessness,” Doreah adds. “Not… not ugly intent, either. That man –” She takes a deep breath. There’s only one _that man_. “He meant it to test me, he liked hearing me beg for mercy, but he meant to brand me, too. Mark me as his property, keep me in my place.”

“You don’t…” _You don’t need to say this if you don’t want_.

“I know,” Doreah replies softly. “But I want to. I need to.” She waits for her queen’s understanding nod before she continues. “I let him talk me into feeling that nobody else wanted me and just when I’d been convinced, he showed me that he didn’t either, not _me_ , he just had an idea of what I was supposed to be in his plan.”

“Reah,” Dany breathes out.

“All my life, I’ve been told what I am and what I’m worth,” Doreah adds. It doesn’t even sound sad anymore, just like she’s reciting facts. “I think this is one of the reasons I love you so. You’re the first person I’ve ever known who’s actually wanted me to decide that for myself.”

“Of course I do,” Daenerys exclaims.

“Of course you do,” Doreah echoes. “You want it for me, you want it for Missandei and Kovarro and Grey Worm and for all of your people. You had the chance to write your own story, and you would give it to others. It’s beautiful.”

“It’s what’s right,” Dany murmurs. “It should not even be a question.”

“But men have made it so,” Doreah points out. “And yet you insist on trying to correct it.”

“Of course,” Dany repeats. Nothing has ever been more obvious to her (or almost nothing, at any rate).


	8. nowhere feels like somewhere when I'm in your arms

With Missandei to help, Doreah’s responsibilities are fewer; they share the simple chores, those pertaining to the khaleesi specifically, and while Missandei deals with the world at large, Doreah deals with the world of the khalasar and the dragons. (Perhaps she should feel somehow put out, taken over, but she is startlingly happy to be left alone with what she knows sometimes. It feels like luxury.)

The day Daenerys is to meet the emissary from Yunkai, the three women wake earlier than all the rest. (Three women, Doreah muses for what must be the hundredth time, three women and three dragons. Missandei is not skittish with them like darling Irri was, either.) They are already set in a routine.

Missandei is already risen, readying for the day, when Doreah stirs. “Khaleesi,” she whispers, nudging the blonde’s shoulder. “Dany, love, wake up.”

A smile crosses Dany’s lips, though her eyes don’t yet open. She finds Doreah’s hips with her hands, shifts them on top of her own. “Good morning, my lady,” she giggles.

Does anyone else even get to see her giggle anymore? Did they ever? Perhaps not.

“I’m surprised,” Doreah says playfully, pressing her hips against Dany’s more firmly. “Missandei is just beyond the curtain.”

Indeed, her figure is visible, if indistinctly, through the filmy cloth. Furthermore, it’s a rather rote chiding, as they both know the scribe is tactful enough to pretend she does not hear their more private laughter.

Dany opens her eyes slowly, beguilingly, and Doreah leans yet closer, whispering, “I suppose there is no shame in a bit of affection. And your lips are just begging to be kissed.”

This begging is answered (as they would both guess, Missandei turns away, carefully ignoring it) and they rub against each other through the silk of their nightdresses until, with a sigh, Doreah pulls away, getting to her feet before she can argue with herself.

“I know, I know,” Dany murmurs, still smiling. “We’ve things to do.”

They are all three quiet as they wash, taking turns (Missandei scrubs Dany’s hard to reach places, Dany Doreah’s, and Doreah Missandei’s) and having their own thoughts. Daenerys has always treated her maids like ladies, there is nothing new in that, but Missandei is still new to it; Doreah, who grew up around other girls in an entirely different way, still marvels at it.

They braid each other’s hair, help each other to dress. Doreah dons her old Dothraki clothes, Missandei her still-new white and blue silk (a tactical choice, it being important to remind the Yunkish of the range of Daenerys’ following), and they wrap and belt Dany into an even newer dress, practically a gown even.

Doreah, who helped pick it out, knows exactly its purposes: its white fabric for innocence and harmlessness, the hint of pink and its length and volume for femininity, its styling for acquiescence to local fashion, its cut for both an allusion to Westerosi clothing and a seeming admittance of vulnerability. Dany still flinches when she is underestimated because of the facts of her birth, Doreah knows this, but she has learned to use it to her advantage, too.

“Splendid, Khaleesi,” Missandei murmurs, fussing with Dany’s jewelry and the fall of hair over her shoulders.

“As always,” Doreah adds in a whisper, lacing their fingers together.

A faint smile plays across Dany’s lips, she squeezes Doreah’s hand, but no more is said; they do not drop hands as they approach the tent set up to receive guests, but her gaze goes cool, her expression steely.

It is always fascinating to Doreah, watching the subtle, instant shifts that separate her Dany and rightful queen Daenerys Stormborn. There is, of course, some of the latter in the former, but there is little in the other direction; the private and the public have their uses, which do not always interconnect. (Missandei is getting to know Dany, Kovarro and the other bloodriders have seen glimpses, the knights are barely acquainted.)

“Khaleesi,” Ser Jorah says.

“Your Grace,” Ser Barristan says.

Both nod to Doreah and Missandei, if belatedly, and Daenerys nods at the men, polite but rather impersonal to match. “I trust all is prepared?” she muses. It is not really a question.

“Yes, Khaleesi,” Kovarro chimes in, gesturing to some of the other men to set the dragons’ cages down in the appointed place. (It is possible he doesn’t fully understand the question’s words, but its general intent is clear.) With a sigh of something like relief, Doreah goes to them, unlatching the doors one after another and cooing at the dragons as they fly out into the tent.

Soon Daenerys falls into a murmured conference with the knights; Missandei sets about tending to the refreshments. Doreah and Kovarro stay in the corner, watching the dragons essentially romp. “Everything is good?” he asks carefully.

“Yes,” Doreah says with a smile, haltingly sliding into Dothraki to add, “The khaleesi knows what she is doing.”

Kovarro smiles too (it is clumsy on his features) and for a moment Doreah truly thinks he’s going to ruffle her hair, such is the strangely fraternal affection of it. “Good,” he says, still attempting the Common Tongue himself. “She –” He furrows his brow, hesitating, and finishes the sentence in his native language; a few of the words reach Doreah, but the overall meaning is lost to her.

“She is a wise ruler, he says,” Missandei translates, crossing to join them with a sheepish smile. “And he respects her judgment.”

With another smile, albeit one that turns rather humorless as she glances across the tent (she knows that consciously cool, almost detached expression on Daenerys’ face, the one that makes her want to run in front of Daenerys and yell at whoever is offending her until they treat her with respect). “That counts for a lot,” she says instead, nodding in assurance as Missandei translates it to him.

They assume positions as the emissary approaches, ones as are appropriate (Daenerys settling against her cushioned seat, knees pressed daintily together, Missandei standing in wait at the tent’s entrance, Doreah moving to Ser Jorah’s side) and they wait. Doreah can see the flash of horror in Dany’s eyes as she takes in the spectacle of the slaves carrying their master in, collars around their throats; she can see the shallow breath Dany takes as if to guard herself against this.

There is nothing can be done about it, of course, nothing that is not already part of the plan; to keep from watching the minute changes in Dany’s expression, Doreah watches the dragons as they romp and fly about the tent. (Really she is here as their nanny of sorts, their nursemaid, it is hers to keep an eye on them and prevent them from acting up _too_ much while the others politic. So shall it be.)

She finds herself having to work, too, to keep from reciting along with Missandei as she introduces their queen, having to work to keep from smiling. “Breaker of chains,” that is the one she loves to hear the most.

Doreah doesn’t pay _too_ too much attention to the man’s words, she just watches Dany’s face, she watches Missandei’s face, she watches the faces of the slaves. Most of all she watches the dragons. Their reactions, she thinks, are their mother’s reactions. Not the ones she can vocalize, perhaps, but nonetheless. They match her, and Doreah finds herself matching them.

They are aggressive because Daenerys (and Missandei, who is no doubt smarting just as much at these reminders of the life she was only recently spared, and Doreah herself) cannot be. The answer to all of this, Doreah thinks, lies somewhere between what the dragons can do and what the khaleesi can do: aggression when needed, because men will rarely listen to words, and words when needed, because aggression cannot be the only thing someone offers.

Still, though, watching them and the way they circle and round on the cruel emissary gives Doreah an idea, and once the others are gone from the tent, she approaches her queen and lover.

“If there are as many dangers outside for us as they say,” she begins in a whisper, “I need to be able to care for myself.”

And Daenerys mulls this over a moment. She understands, and she understands more than she ought to say aloud: Doreah has an interest in making sure that what happened to her once does not happen again, and how could that be argued? “All right,” she says. “Did you have anything in mind?”

“I’m not suited for any of the grand weapons,” Doreah muses. “It would take me longer than we have to learn. But poison isn’t always practical.”

“A dagger, then?” Dany offers. “It seems a compromise.”

Doreah’s turn to contemplate, but the more she does, the fonder she is of the idea. “Is that all right?” she murmurs. “I suspect ladies-in-waiting don’t often carry knives.”

Dany shrugs. “What do I know of what a lady-in-waiting is supposed to do?” she points out. “And why would what someone is supposed to do affect what is right to do? If you want it, if it would make you feel safer…”

“It would,” Doreah admits.

“Then it’s settled,” Daenerys declares. “We’ll find something that suits you, and I’ll speak to Kovarro about teaching you to use it, perhaps.”

“Thank you,” Doreah says, scooting onto the bench beside the other woman and reaching for one of her hands. For everything, she means, and it doesn’t need articulated. They both understand.


	9. taking the chase to curb our fear as the bloodless moon casts its face

“ _Nineteen_?”

“Yes, Your Grace,” Missandei murmurs, smiling sheepishly as she scrubs Daenerys’ back.

“How can anyone speak _nineteen_ languages?” Doreah asks from her seat at Dany’s dressing table, where she’s currently sipping wine and buffing her nails.

“It only took Her Grace a year to learn Dothraki reasonably well,” Missandei shrugs.

“Yes, well,” Dany huffs, leaning back against the tub. “It was either learn Dothraki or grunt at my husband and hope – what do you mean, _reasonably_ well?”

She sounds so affronted that Doreah has to hold back a giggle – not a pointed one – and Missandei flinches, looking concerned as she tries to remediate.

“Dothraki is difficult for the mouth to master,” she says carefully. Off Doreah’s reassuring nod – _yes, it’s all right, promise –_ she adds, “Your High Valyrian is very good, Your Grace.”

Suddenly, Dany’s worried that she might have come off too demanding or something such as, and she colors, smiling nervously and causing Doreah to give her a similar comforting look before nodding to the pitcher of wine.

“The gods could not devise a more perfect tongue,” Missandei continues rhapsodically. “It is the only proper language for poetry.”

Before she can add any more, a rustling comes from behind the curtains, and Missandei, closest to the sound, raises a finger to her lips and nods in the direction before creeping over and poking her head round to look. Not a moment has passed before she disappears with a squeak, prompting Daenerys and Doreah to exchange anxious glances.

“Who’s there?” Doreah calls out coldly, reaching behind her for her recently-acquired dagger.

Missandei re-emerges, nudged along by one of the sellswords from earlier that day. He’s got a large sack in one hand and a knife, currently held to Missandei's throat, in the other.

“Don’t scream,” he says, smiling.

“Let go of her,” Daenerys demands.

“I came to speak to you, Your Grace.”

“We will do so without your blade to my scribe’s throat,” Daenerys says flatly.

He makes no move to release her, though; after a brief conference of glances with Missandei, Doreah throws her dagger, sending it flying past the sellsword’s head. He startles, giving Missandei a chance to break away and scurry toward the other women.

Doreah raises a hand to Missandei’s cheek. “Are you all right, sweetling?” she murmurs.

Missandei nods, closing her hand over Doreah’s to accept her comfort before turning to stare at the man.

“A thousand pardons,” he chuckles. He pulls the dagger from the tentpost it stuck in, offers it to Doreah hilt-first.

“What did you come here for?” Doreah asks.

“To speak with the queen,” he declares.

“You will forgive the question,” Missandei pipes up, “but if you’re seeking an audience with the queen, we will need to know your name.” Not as if he didn’t share it earlier, but so did his cohorts, and what she’s really saying (Dany makes a note to commend her for this later) is that he wasn’t important enough to remember.

“Daario Naharis at your service,” he says, sheathing his knife and bending in a grand bow. “Captain of the Second Sons.”

“One of the captains,” Dany corrects, raising an eyebrow.

“When earlier we spoke, yes,” he agrees. He lifts the sack he’s been carrying. “Now…”

“There has been a change?” Dany prompts.

He smirks, turns the sack over. Two decapitated heads roll onto the ground, their expressions frozen. In spite of herself, Doreah gasps.

“They wanted me to sneak here tonight to kill you,” Daario says. “I didn’t agree.”

“I am fortunate, then,” Dany exclaims, her tone the one that Doreah knows as her intentionally vulnerable one used to manipulate. “You came, then, to inform me of my safety?”

“We spoke earlier of my men contracting with you,” he reminds. “I came to offer that service once more.”

The women exchange glances. “And yet you offer this in private, not before an audience,” Doreah says, watching him for reactions.

“Ah, but you women are all the audience I need,” he says. His gaze travels over the three of them in succession but settles on Daenerys.

She doesn’t flinch, though, nor does she preen. Instead, she rises out of the water, unapologetically nude. Immediately Doreah and Missandei hurry forward, Missandei with a silk robe and Doreah with a spray of scent, and Daario falls to take a knee.

“Daario Naharis,” Daeneys says solemnly as she ties the robe closed. “I accept your offer of service.”

“My sword,” Daario begins, laying said item over his knee in supplication, “my sword and all other things are yours to use as you see fit.”

Doreah doesn’t bother hiding her disbelieving expression; Missandei wrinkles her nose.

“I accept the offer,” Daenerys nods. “But, little more can be done in the middle of the night.”

Daario arches an eyebrow, but he stands and sheaths his sword. “Very well, Your Grace,” he says. “I will join you tomorrow.”

Once he is gone – Aggo meets him at the tent’s exit, Daenerys orders him in his native tongue to see Daario away – the other two swarm Missandei, each reaching to take one of her hands.

“You swear he did not hurt you?” Daenerys asks.

Missandei smiles shakily. “I swear it,” she says.

“It seems an odd tactic to get my approval,” Dany declares, smirking. “Killing his own compatriots and threatening mine.”

“He was trying to impress you,” Doreah points out. “Show his bravado, in hopes of bedding you.”

“Seven hells,” Dany groans. “I was hoping that I’d been imagining that.”

“You weren’t,” Doreah and Missandei chorus.

“He’s not a man who’s used to having to work to seduce anyone,” Doreah observes.

Daenerys wrinkle her nose. “I suppose he was a bit _obvious_.”

Missandei shrugs and goes for the wine, giggling. “He was very confident,” she observes, pouring two more glasses. “He seems to rely on his face rather heavily.”

“It’s not a horrible face,” Dany muses.

“No,” Doreah agrees, “but what came out of it…”

“Words are not his gift,” Missandei spplies.

“No,” Doreah repeats. She takes a sip of wine, goes to their lounge and sits gracefully. “Nor is intuition. He didn’t pick up on the signs that were being given.”

“He did not,” Dany says, going to snuggle against Doreah’s side and motioning for Missandei to join. “He may be a useful ally, but I have no need of what else he has offered me.”


End file.
